First, do no harm
by labyrinth38
Summary: This is a series of one-shots surrounding the events of the S4 finale the early episodes of S5. Contains HEAVY SPOILERS for those episodes! - Mostly House, Wilson, Cuddy, Foreman & Chase; but focusing on the House-Wilson friendship. No slash!
1. The favor

**A/N: This will probably become a series of one-shots surrounding the events of the Season 4 finale and the early episodes of Season 5. **

**First part can be considered an alternative scene for "Wilson's heart". - Contains some angst, so if you're already depressed enough, better not continue… ;)**

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The favor**

"You can't ask him to do this procedure." Cuddy's voice was determined; she was eyeing her head of oncology almost imploringly. "His heart gave out not 24 hours ago. – He has a skull fracture. A _severe_ concussion; brain swelling!"

Wilson steadily met her gaze. "I _need _him to do this."

Briefly closing her eyes, Cuddy replied with a slight shake of her head. "Wilson. If he does the deep brain stimulation in his current condition, there might be serious damage. – There are so many things that could go wrong… He could _die_ doing this!"

Wilson countered without hesitation: "If he _doesn't _do this, Amber _will_ die."

"She might die either way, James…" Cuddy's tone had softened considerably. "And I am really _very_ sorry about that. – But do you really wanna risk losing them _both_ on the off-chance that this procedure will actually help House recover his memory of that symptom? And not only that, but that her condition is even curable?"

Wilson's voice was very quiet when he finally replied. "I can't lose her, Cuddy. I _have_ to take that risk…"

She still very obviously wasn't convinced. "This is not the only way. When his brain starts to heal – "

He interrupted her with a tense half-shrug. "Yeah, well… It's not healing quickly enough. Not to save Amber's life." Then, almost pleadingly: "She just doesn't have the _time_, Cuddy."

"But he's your _best friend_!" Tone full of disbelief and maybe even a trace of anger by now.

"And she might be the love of my life!" But despite the determined words, Wilson was suddenly unable to fully meet her gaze; he wore an almost desperate expression by now. "I know I'm asking a lot. But I _love_ her…"

"Yeah, well… _He doesn't_! – You can't expect him to do this."

At least Wilson had the decency to look vaguely uncomfortable when he spoke again, his eyes only fleetingly meeting Cuddy's. "He loves _me_."

Silence.

Then, clearly aghast: "I can't _believe _you'd actually use that fact to manipulate him into this! – He already _completely_ went beyond his limits to even tell you Amber was hurt! He did that for you, James! – And now you want him to just ignore the fact that he has been seriously injured himself and once again risk his life? You, who was against the _hypnosis_ because it could have done him harm…"

Wilson bravely met her angry gaze. "This time I know it's about Amber. It's about her _life_, Cuddy."

She abruptly pushed herself out of her desk chair at that, finally unable to remain sitting. "And it's about _his life,_ _too_! Or are you saying his life is worth less than hers?!"

Wincing slightly at those words, Wilson paused briefly, before once again eyeing her intently, willing her to understand. "I'm saying that I need her to live! If there's any chance at all, I need to know that I did everything I could to try and save her…"

Cuddy's gaze hardened some more. "Even if it means sacrificing your best friend."

Wilson forced himself to hold her gaze, even if he now looked almost pained. "I love her, Cuddy. I can't just watch her die…"

She hesitated a moment, then just shook her head again, stating much more quietly: "If he heard you talking like that, it would break him. – I'm not gonna let you do that to him. I won't simply stand by and watch you force him into this."

That was when a quiet voice suddenly spoke up from behind. "You won't have to." Surprised, they both turned around to find House standing in the doorway to Cuddy's office.

He was still much too pale, leaning heavily on his cane, left hand additionally holding onto the door frame. "I will ask Chase to do the procedure." His voice was almost toneless; he was meeting neither of their gazes.

Cuddy's expression softened considerably at his words, tears now threatening to fill her eyes. "House… How long – "

She didn't even get to finish the question. "Long enough. – Doesn't matter though. I'll do the procedure…"

Cuddy just shook her head. "House. This is – "

He interrupted her again. "My decision, Cuddy." He was already turning around and heading towards the corridor again.

Wilson, who hadn't been able to bring himself to look at his friend up till now, finally spoke as well, slowly lifting his head. "House!"

The older man stopped walking, but didn't turn around again. "It's okay; I understand."

Desperately glancing towards the ceiling to keep his composure, Wilson finally almost blurted out: "I'm _sorry_…"

House slowly turned towards him at that, briefly meeting the other man's gaze. To anyone else, his face would have seemed expressionless, but Wilson had no trouble identifying the flicker of emotion he hadn't been able to conceal.

The moment he saw the deep hurt in the confused blue eyes, Wilson knew that the damage he had just inflicted on his friend would probably never be repairable.

Quickly averting his gaze again, House eventually replied with a barely perceivable nod. "Yeah… I know."

When he started turning towards the door again, his eyes briefly met Cuddy's. She opened her mouth to say something, _anything_ to prevent this madness, but just then something in House's formerly slumped posture suddenly changed, his expression shifting until the look on his face spoke of nothing but stern determination.

Tightening the grip on his cane, he straightened up some more, before starting to limp down the corridor towards the surgical department...

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**Hope you've liked it... Thank you for reading! :) **


	2. Almost dying changes nothing

**A/N: Another Wilson-Cuddy-conversation piece, meant as a post-ep fic for "Dying changes everything". – Hope you enjoy! :)**

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**Almost dying changes nothing**

"What the hell did you do?!"

Whatever Wilson had expected Cuddy to say when he opened the door for her, it certainly wasn't this.

"What… do you mean? You said you understood my decis… – "

She rudely cut him off. "I'm not talking about your resignation." Her voice was icy. "Right now, I couldn't care less about _where_ or even _if_ you work…"

Wilson's gaze hardened as soon as understanding dawned. "So, this is about him. Again. – My girlfriend dies, and still everything's about him." His voice held a bitterness that was almost threatening to become familiar.

"Wilson… I am really _very_ sorry for your loss. – But that doesn't justify you _blindly_ lashing out at him."

"Blindly lashing out? I've been trying to _protect_ him. And when that didn't work, because he – as always – couldn't simply respect my decision, I told him the truth!" He shrugged, as if the casualness of the gesture could do anything to take the weight out of what he had done.

"The _truth_?!" Cuddy echoed incredulously. "First you tell him to risk his life – risk his _mind_, Wilson – to give Amber just a tiny chance to survive. And he actually, _insanely_ does it. In a heartbeat. For _you_. Because he _loves_ you! – And now you tell him you've never even been _friends_…?!"

Wilson actually rolled his eyes at that, turning away from the door now but leaving it open, allowing her entrance. "I can't believe he went running to you with this…"

"Running to me? – Wilson! He is _heartbroken_!" She reluctantly entered the room, her gaze still fixed on him, but he refused to meet her eyes. – It didn't stop her. "You took the one thing he actually thought he could _rely_ on in his life, and yanked it out from under his feet!"

Wilson replied with an almost derisive snort. "House is not nearly as fragile as you think he is, Cuddy… He'll be fine. – He always is…" Then, almost casually: "It might actually do him some good to be confronted with his boundaries, for once in his life… In the long run, I think I'm doing _both_ of us a favor…"

"Did you even listen to me?" She shook her head, willing the man to understand. "You _broke_ – his _heart_!" She was actually close to yelling by now; and she didn't care…

Allowing the words to sink in for a moment, she paused briefly, before finally continuing much more quietly: "You know what he said to me?" Just recalling his earlier words made her stomach clench. The way he had just sat there on the floor of Wilson's deserted office…

"He said that, if he could, he'd trade places with Amber in a heartbeat. Gladly. Because then at least you wouldn't hate him… – And you know what he also said?" Tears were suddenly filling her eyes, but she bravely continued anyway. "That his dying _now_ wouldn't change anything. That it would only make things worse…" She swallowed a couple of times to make her voice sound firmer than she felt right now. She needed Wilson to know. All of it. "And not because you'd miss him! He doesn't even consider that anymore… But because, eventually, he thinks you'd feel guilty over his death. Which would only make you feel worse than you are doing now…"

Wilson didn't respond right away. When he finally spoke again, his voice sounded tight. "What…" He swallowed visibly, but when he moved his head slightly to look at her, his expression was still unreadable. "What is it you want from me Cuddy?"

She tilted her head slightly at that, considering him for a moment. Then, something in her expression suddenly shifted. "You know what I want from you? – I want you to _celebrate_." He just eyed her quizzically. "Yes, you lost your girlfriend. – But you would have damned near lost him as well, and you didn't. Your _best friend_ – because no matter what you decide to call him, he is _just that_ – would almost have died from a procedure you guilted him into; and he didn't! If I were you, I'd celebrate that…"

When Wilson didn't reply anything, she firmly continued: "And if you can't do that, because you're still… hurting too much, than at least _talk_ to him for God's sake…"

Briefly closing his eyes, he shook his head. "I did talk to him."

"And actually tell him something resembling the _truth_ this time!"

Wilson slowly lifted his head to look at her again, his expression suddenly resigned. "I… don't know what that is anymore."

Her gaze softened slightly at the defeated words. "Then, tell him that. Tell him _anything _other than what you told him today. Because no matter what it is you're feeling, he can handle it. As long as you don't destroy everything you once were…"

Tears were suddenly filling Wilson's eyes as well. Stuffing both hands into the pockets of his jeans, he quickly gazed at the ceiling in an effort to regain some semblance of control. Then he forced himself to make eye-contact with her again, his voice once again firm. "I think maybe that is just what I _need_ to do, if I want to get over this. – I can't get back to where I was; to where _we_ were. And with House, that means I can't get back to us at all. He would never be able to deal with the change. – It's everything or nothing with him. Friends or no friends. – So we're _no_ friends…"

She stared at him for a long moment. "Just like that…" Something between a question and a statement.

Wilson nodded. "I need to protect myself."

Her gaze still rested on him, a disbelieving look on her face. "By pushing the person you care most about out of your life."

He immediately started to protest: "I don't – " He suddenly didn't seem to know how to finish the sentence.

She threw him a challenging glance. "Push or _care_?"

Shaking his head again, he didn't reply anything.

Then: "I'm in pain."

Cuddy's expression softened some more at his almost childlike words. "I know. – So is he…"

Silence.

Eventually, Wilson responded with a minute nod, but didn't say anything more.

Resigned, Cuddy turned towards the door, ready to leave now that she had said everything she'd had to say.

When she was already half-way through the door, Wilson suddenly called after her.

"Cuddy!"

Hesitantly turning around again, she threw him a questioning glance. He didn't meet her gaze, eyes glued firmly to the floor.

"You'll be… having an eye on him; won't you."

Cuddy looked at him for a long moment, thinking about how to respond. Whether to use this moment of weakness against him.

She eventually just indicated a nod, her gaze and tone both mild. "Of course… You know I will."

Once she had pulled the door closed behind herself, she allowed a sad smile to enter her face.

_Yeah… Obviously, he didn't care. At all._

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**Thank you for reading! – I hope this was not too OOC, for either of them... I found this really hard to write, but wanted to post it anyway before posting the next part, in order to keep the timeline... Thanks again and have a very nice pre-Christmas time everyone! :) *hugs*  
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	3. Control

**A/N: ****Third part of this series; takes places sometime during Wilson's absence at the beginning of S5. – Have fun! ;)**

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Control**

"She's getting better; treatment's working." Foreman delivered his report from the door to House's office, not even fully entering the room. – He was anxious to finally go home. It was almost 2 a.m. and they had all been on their feet for nearly 48 hours.

When House didn't reply anything, in fact didn't even look up from whatever he was doing at his desk, he reluctantly added with a slight shrug: "Good call."

That finally got him a response. "Yeah, well… If you hadn't fought me _every step of the way_, I would have made that 'good call' _days_ ago…" House sounded pissed as always, but something more seemed a bit 'off' somehow…

Curious, Foreman took a couple of steps into the room. – That was when he suddenly noticed House's shivering. _Intense_ shivering in fact.

He took a guess: "Flu?" It wouldn't be surprising; the clinic was flooded with flu patients this time of the year…

House still didn't even look up at him. "Whatever," was all he finally offered in response.

Frowning slightly at the odd reply, Foreman approached his boss some more. As soon as he got a better look at the other man's face in the rather dimly lit room, he was almost startled by how pale House seemed; plus his shirt was slightly damp with sweat.

Foreman's frown deepened, but his tone conveyed nothing but mild curiosity when he spoke again. "Seriously. What's up?" He nodded slightly towards the other man, but didn't approach him any more.

When House, once again, didn't immediately reply anything, Foreman glanced up at the ceiling in obvious frustration. He really, _really_ wanted to go home sometime this _decade_!

"Come on, House… If you're sick – "

"I'm not sick. Okay?!" Abruptly raising his head, House met his gaze for the first time since his arrival. The angry glance he shot him couldn't quite conceal the pain that was clearly visible in his eyes as well.

Foreman only now noticed that both of his hands were awkwardly holding his right thigh.

He slowly nodded, more cautiously now. "Okay. _Hurting_ then. – Where are your pills…"

When House just averted his gaze again without replying anything, he impatiently grabbed the jacket his boss had obviously haphazardly thrown over one of the chairs earlier. – He had no trouble locating the familiar orange vial in one of its pockets...

He was just about to throw it to House, when he suddenly noticed what should have been immediately apparent. – It was empty.

Foreman's frown instantly returned at that.

"House. Where are your pills?"

When the other man once again didn't reply anything, understanding suddenly dawned. "You're detoxing." Not a question.

Instead of confirming Foreman's assumption or even offering some sort of alternative explanation, House suddenly leaned to the side, seemingly about to throw up.

Foreman simply shook his head. "_Why_?" He made no move to approach the other man.

House was still awkwardly leaning over the trash can, one hand lightly holding his stomach, eyes closed by now. "'M out," was all he eventually murmured in response.

Another eye-roll. "And you couldn't have simply told your – " Foreman abruptly interrupted himself. Yeah, right… House's prescribing physician wasn't exactly around right now.

He eyed the other man expectantly. "So, who's taking over as your prescribing?"

No response.

"But you _did ask_ someone, didn't you."

Silence.

"House." Foreman's voice was almost stern by now, as if lecturing a small child. "Didn't you?" ---

Okay, so he apparently hadn't. – With another half-annoyed, half-impatient eye-roll, Foreman took out his prescription pad, ready to write the script himself.

But House's rough voice stopped him. "Don't."

He almost would have rolled his eyes again. "House… You need – "

"No; I don't." Voice quiet, but firm. "He'll be back."

Foreman was taken by surprise when he actually felt an acute, almost painful stab of sympathy at the other man's almost childlike statement. The thought of this man in chronic pain running out of pain relief and simply _letting it happen_, in the vain hope that the friend who had medically cared for him for all these years would somehow return in time… – Unbiddenly, the image of a drowning man, desperately clinging to a rotten plank that he _knew_ wouldn't hold him, suddenly flashed before his eyes. It was an image he somehow couldn't reconcile with his notion of House; it was an image he _definitely_ didn't want to get used to… – His voice reflexively softened a little.

"So; what… Now you're just gonna wait until he does?! – You can't be serious, House… You don't even know – " Somehow, he couldn't bring himself to say it, instead settling on a milder version of the truth for now. "It could be weeks, House… Hell, it could be months!"

House had in the meantime closed his eyes again, still awkwardly leaning to one side. Then he suddenly winced, swallowing a soft moan of pain, both hands reflexively going back to his painful leg.

That was finally too much for Foreman. "Okay, House; you've got two options. Either you let me write this one prescription for you, and then we'll go from there… Or I'm admitting you."

House didn't react at first, either considering his options or simply too distracted by the pain to even hear Foreman at this point, but then he finally gave a very small nod.

Taking that as a nod of acceptance, and deciding that House probably wasn't in any shape to walk to the pharmacy right now, Foreman simply left the room to get the medication himself.

. . . . . . .

When he returned, House's condition had clearly further deteriorated. He was forcing out each breath by now, whole body trembling tensely, and sweat was pouring down the sides of his face.

With an urgency that absolutely didn't match his usual cool, Foreman quickly flipped the Vicodin bottle open, shaking a couple of pills into his own hand. "How many?"

When House opened his mouth as if to reply, but then suddenly just held his breath again, he snapped a little more harshly than intended: "House! How many pills?!" He was a little surprised by how unnerving he found the whole incident. – It was just a pain crisis after all… Nothing he hadn't witnessed before.

"Two," House finally managed to bring out through gritted teeth.

Foreman quickly handed them over, before briefly leaving the other man to get him a glass of water from the adjacent conference room.

When he returned, House was still breathing erratically and Foreman was seriously starting to worry that he might pass out any minute. Perching down on the edge of House's desk, he wordlessly reached out to take the other man's pulse.

"Need you to take a deep breath, House. – Come on; just try to calm down a bit… Deep breath."

House actually seemed to try and follow his instructions, but he weakly pulled his arm back and out of Foreman's gentle grip. "I'm fine. Just," another sharp intake of breath, "give me a minute. – Not kickin' in yet…"

Foreman nodded slowly, feeling a lot calmer now that House was at least talking again. "I know; it's okay. Take your time. – But _breathe_, House…"

. . . . . . .

Half an hour later, House had finally started to relax a little. Some of the color was slowly returning to his face, and the involuntary shivers had gradually subsided along with the withdrawal. When he finally leaned back in his chair, tiredly closing his eyes, Foreman slowly got to his feet again. – Regarding the other man critically for a moment, he came to the conclusion that he looked completely spent.

"You need a ride home?" He finally asked in as neutral a voice as he managed.

House just shook his head, very briefly meeting his questioning gaze. "Nah… I'm just gonna," he nodded towards his recliner, "stay a while longer. Wait for an update on fever woman."

Foreman raised an eyebrow at that, even though he was secretly pleased that House seemed to be returning to his usual grumpy self. "Sandra," he corrected in a mildly annoyed tone, before nodding once and turning to leave.

One hand already on the glass door, he suddenly hesitated, frustration evident on his face. Since when had he become such a girl?! – Schooling his features into indifference, he finally turned around again, once more eyeing the other man assessingly.

House had closed his eyes again by now, apparently relaxed, one hand just loosely resting on his right thigh. The lines of pain had almost completely left his face, and he was taking slow, deep breaths. – He seemed fine, given the ordeal he'd just been through… Still, Foreman didn't want to take any chances.

"Just… You sure you'll be okay now?" He didn't even know himself whether he was referring to the other man's physical condition or to the fact that he had just left a full bottle of a potentially lethal narcotic in the hands of a man who had – for the past God-only-knew how many hours – denied himself the medication he needed, just out of some sort of irrational belief that that might just make his friend magically come back again.

House tiredly looked up at him, brow furrowing slightly in surprise, as of yet apparently undecided whether to feel annoyed or amused by Foreman's atypical behavior.

Eventually, he replied with a very small nod, his tone unusually mild: "I'm fine now. – You can go."

Hesitating a moment longer, Foreman eventually gave a clipped nod in response. "You… have my number. Use it if you need to." He thought he saw a minute smile tugging at one corner of House's mouth at the awkward formulation.

With a last glance towards the other man, he somewhat stiffly turned around to finally go home.

As soon as he had reached the corridor, he flipped his cell phone open, huffing in annoyance when he was only put through to voice mail.

"When I told you you should leave, I was being an idiot; just for the record... – And when you _did_, I'm sorry, but so were you."

_Click._

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**Hope you've liked it. :) Next part will be posted in a couple of days!****  
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	4. Fun

**A/N: ****This one takes place a few weeks after Wilson's return… Hope you enjoy! :) **

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"_I'm coming back__, because you're right. – That strange, annoying trip we just took was the most fun I've had since Amber died…" (Wilson; Ep. 5.4 "Birthmarks") _

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**Fun**

House's message had been cryptic. – At best.

When Chase had finished his last surgery for the day, his cell phone had announced three missed calls and one message from his ex-boss on voice mail. If he had gotten all the metaphors right, House wanted him to come to a bowling center in town and meet him outside.

Which was rather strange. If he remembered correctly, it was House's and Wilson's weekly bowling night, but why would House be calling _him_ then? He had bowled with the other man once before, but that had been more as a substitute for Wilson than anything else, and since Wilson's recent return, he had not spent any more time with House outside the hospital.

. . . . . . .

When he arrived at the club, Chase immediately spotted his ex-boss. On a bench close to the center's entrance. A young man who looked like some sort of bike courier was standing close to him, hovering, fidgeting, but not talking to House or making any other sort of contact.

"Hey." Chase casually approached the two, inconspicuously regarding his former boss. "What's up?"

Before House even had a chance to reply, the courier quickly spoke up, apparently relieved by Chase's arrival.

"It was an accident, man… I really didn't see him at all. I don't usually speed you know? And I never, _ever_ ride on the sidewalk; usually…"

Chase nodded somewhat impatiently and was just about to ask him to come to the point, when they were rudely interrupted by House himself.

"Yeah, yeah, yeah... We all get it. You're a saint, but apparently _blind_. – Stop with the guilt trip already and go home to your Mom."

The young man frowned at that. "I don't – "

"Girlfriend. Boyfriend. – Whatever…"

Chase now shook his head, somewhat confused by the strange exchange. And still not quite getting what had actually happened. – He was spared the dilemma of trying to get it out of House.

"I crashed into him." The courier guiltily nodded towards his bike. "He fell…" Then, gesturing towards House's right side: "I think he injured his leg."

Before Chase could even reply anything, House already rolled his eyes. "And I think you're a moron. – I'm not _injured_… I'm crippled! – _This_," he lifted his cane slightly for demonstration, "is the _standard equipment_…"

The younger man eyed him impassively. "You couldn't get up. You were up before." Then, to Chase: "I told him I'd wait with him until someone came to pick him up. Just wanted to make sure… you know… that there were no further incidents."

House interrupted with another eye-roll: "Whatever." Then he threw Chase a very brief glance. "In order to avoid any _further incidents_," he echoed the bike courier mockingly, "why don't you bring your car over here."

It was parked not 20 yards away, which made Chase frown slightly in mild concern. "Yeah," he finally replied slowly, eyeing the other man dubiously. "Why don't I just do that…"

. . . . . . .

By the time he had parked directly in front of the other man, House had gotten to his feet, but stood hunched. When he made no move to get into the car, Chase hesitantly approached him frowning slightly again. "You okay?" He tried to keep his tone casual, knowing from long years of experience how much House hated it, when people reacted any more than absolutely necessary to his disability and all related difficulties.

House replied with a very small nod, refusing to meet Chase's assessing gaze. "Yeah, just… Don't think I can walk on the leg right now." He sounded almost embarrassed by the admission.

Chase's frown deepened.

Walking over to House's right side, he then just nodded slightly, indicating for him to switch the cane to his left hand. "Let me give you a hand then…" Calm; pragmatical.

Pulling House's right arm across his shoulders, Chase supported most of the other man's weight for the few steps they had to take to get him into the passenger seat of the car.

Once House seemed to have found a more or less comfortable position, Chase wordlessly started the car.

After only a minute or two, he noticed House starting to tensely rub his bad leg. He was a little worried about the pallor of the other man's face, and his unusually labored breathing.

Keeping his eyes on the road, he finally calmly inquired: "Sure you don't need an X-ray?"

In his peripheral vision, he saw House jerk his head slightly in a nondescript gesture. "It's just a bruise."

Chase slowly nodded. – Then: "Where's Wilson?"

House just shrugged weakly, both hands still gingerly holding his thigh. "How should _I_ know? Do I look like his mother?!"

But Chase wasn't deterred that easily. "Isn't tonight your bowling night?"

"Yeah, well… Looks like that wouldn't be the best idea for me right now, don't ya think?!" House's tone was slowly but surely becoming more acid...

Chase calmly clarified: "I _meant_: Why didn't you call Wilson? He was probably already on his way."

This time, House turned his head towards the passenger door window, completely averting his face like that. "Told him bowling was off. Didn't tell him what happened…"

Chase frowned heavily at that. – He went over House's words for a moment, but then just shook his head, honestly puzzled. "Why not?"

House didn't reply anything, instead going back to carefully rubbing the side of his leg.

They passed the rest of the way to House's apartment in silence.

. . . . . . .

Pulling the car into a parking space directly in front of the building, Chase shut off the engine and slowly got out of the car. He watched House very carefully lift his bad leg with both hands, while slowly turning his upper body. He brought the second leg out as well, but hesitated then.

Wordlessly holding out his arm for the other man, Chase allowed him to pull himself to his feet by holding onto the car door with one hand, and his arm with the other. As soon as he appeared to be standing more or less under his own power, Chase handed him his cane, ready to additionally support him on his right side again.

The short way into the house seemed to stretch out for miles. By the time they had finally reached the door to his apartment, House was bathed in sweat, visibly trembling and breathing heavily again. He also seemed to grow paler by the minute.

When they had made it approximately halfway to the couch, Chase suddenly felt House tense up even more.

"Dammit… Think I'm gonna – " With those words, House suddenly went completely slack against him.

"Shit!" Chase hadn't anticipated this, and so could do nothing more than to cushion House's fall by letting him slide to the floor in a more or less controlled manner.

"House!" He immediately started patting his cheek, trying to rouse him.

When that didn't seem to be getting him anywhere, he quickly pulled the piano bench towards them, using it to elevate House's left leg. Hesitating briefly, he finally grabbed a large couch cushion to more carefully elevate the right one as well.

"House, come on…" Once again kneeling down next to the other man, Chase automatically reached out to take his pulse, while gently patting his cheek again with his free hand.

House's eyes slowly started to flutter open.

"Yeah, that's it… You're okay." He slowly removed his hand from the other man's face. "Blood pressure just bottomed out there for a minute…"

House looked momentarily confused, but when he turned his head slightly to focus on Chase's face, his expression seemed to slowly relax again.

Deciding to give the other man a moment, Chase went into the bathroom, drenched a small towel in cool water and then waited a moment before returning to the living room.

In the meantime, House had sat up and moved slightly to lean back against one of the walls.

Chase handed him the towel. "Better…?"

Just a nod. But House accepted the towel and immediately held it against his forehead.

Not quite sure what to do next, Chase hesitantly sat down on the bench he had moved just a minute ago.

House eyed him somewhat impatiently. "I'm fine now. You can go." He tiredly closed his eyes. "Thanks for the ride…"

Chase nodded slowly, but made no move to get up and leave, instead leaning forward a little, keeping his gaze on the floor between his feet.

After a minute of silence, he quietly asked without looking up again: "Why wouldn't you call Wilson, when he intended to meet you anyway?"

House seemed almost angry by the question. "He intended to _bowl_ with me; not play _nurse _for me…"

Chase slowly shook his head. "I don't understand… I thought you guys were okay again! – You don't think he'd want to know when you – "

"I _think_," House interrupted him harshly, "that we had plans tonight for an activity I was _pretty sure _at some point I wouldn't be able to participate in. So I canceled. End of story." He very carefully moved his leg slightly with both hands, apparently trying to find a more comfortable position.

Chase snorted at that. "So… Now you've gone from being best friends for more than a decade to… what. Guys sharing a couple of drinks and a few rounds of bowling a week? – You can't honestly think he's just in this for the fun of it, House…"

"Yes, I can." Not the slightest hesitation. Not the tiniest bit of doubt in his voice.

Chase threw him a dubious glance. "And that is because…?"

"He told me."

Silence.

"What… do you mean?" Chase carefully questioned the other man, somehow sensing that this was dangerous territory.

House now looked up at him, something between a bitter smile and a strangely pained expression on his face, but he replied in a surprisingly light tone: "Apparently; I'm more fun than sitting alone in an empty apartment, mourning your dead girlfriend…" Even though he was aiming for sarcastic, he sounded more hurt than anything else.

Before Chase could even come up with something to say, House already continued, obviously intent on clarifying this. "That's the reason he came back! Said so himself… – Apparently, even though I so constantly _spread misery_, I'm also…" he shrugged slightly, but the movement seemed forced "…fun."

Slowly shaking his head, Chase eyed the other man uncertainly. "House…"

"Could be a lot worse though…" House continued with another small shrug, voice tinged with bitterness. "He could still hate my guts for killing his girlfriend." Slowly closing his eyes again, he continued in a resigned tone: "At least he knows what he's still getting out of our – whatever he calls it these days…"

Grimacing slightly at the other man's somber words, Chase just shook his head again. "This is ridiculous, House… Since when do you of all people listen so much to what someone _says_?" He continued more insistently, trying to make eye-contact again. "You can't actually believe that he just expects 'fun' from you. – No matter what he _said_: You're his friend. He cares about you. He _missed_ you! – That's why he came back…"

House didn't reply anything for a long moment, refusing to meet the other man's intent gaze. Keeping his eyes fixed on the floor, he finally just shrugged again, his voice so quiet that Chase could hardly hear him. "I didn't understand why he left, and I don't understand why he came back. – All I have to _go _on is what he _says_…"

Then he suddenly looked up at the younger man. "I think I'm gonna be sick."

The abrupt change in subject was so unexpected, that it took Chase a moment to react.

Quickly organizing a large bowl from the kitchen, he handed it over to House, who immediately started to retch; he didn't bring anything up.

After a minute or two, the acute bout of nausea seemed to have passed. – Leaning his head back against the wall, House tiredly closed his eyes again, one hand once more lightly holding his thigh.

Chase eyed him worriedly. "Did the bike hit your leg, or did you fall on it…"

House kept his eyes closed, voice tense. "Bike."

Nodding slowly, Chase hesitated a moment. – Then: "Maybe we should take a look, House. Make sure you didn't break anything..."

Instead of replying, House suddenly just reached for the bowl again, his face losing even more of its color.

Chase's concern went up another notch when he then tried to move his leg slightly, but abruptly stopped again, suppressing a low moan of pain.

Slowly shaking his head, Chase pushed himself to his feet again. "Okay, House; you need to help me out a little here… What do you need? – Ice? Pain meds? – An ambulance?"

That last proposition made House abruptly open his eyes again. He threw Chase a very brief glance, before shaking his head slightly. "No, just… I just need to lie down for a while."

Okay. He could work with that. – Chase nodded. "Couch or bed."

. . . . . . .

The next few minutes passed in a haze of pain for House and in quite a bit of eggshell walking for Chase.

Once House was settled relatively comfortably on his bed, Chase had coaxed him into taking some ibuprofen and had helped him to carefully elevate his injured leg on a couple of big bed pillows. Then he had organized a bag of frozen peas from House's kitchen, so he could ice the injury. Finally, he had placed House's cell phone, Vicodin and a glass of water onto the nightstand, making sure everything was well within the other man's reach.

"So…" Chase regarded his ex-boss critically again, before turning towards the bedroom door. "Give me a call tomorrow and let me know if you need a ride in or… anything else, okay?" He nodded towards the other man's cell phone.

House rolled his eyes at that. "Why don't you go and set up a Life Alert button for me while you're at it… I might fall out of bed and die in my own pathetic-ness!"

Chase smiled slightly at that. "Whatever, House… – Just call me, or I'll have to break down your door."

Then he briefly averted his gaze, before somewhat hesitantly making eye-contact again. "And regarding that thing with Wilson…" He saw House's expression close off, but continued anyway. "I mean... He realized he missed having fun with you _at your Dad's funeral_, to which he _forced_ you; _drugged_! – Somehow I get the impression that _his_ definition of 'fun' and _yours_ vastly differ…" Throwing the other man a very small smile, he then just nodded slightly. "Goodnight, House. I'll see you tomorrow…"

. . . . . . .

When he heard his apartment door open and then close again a minute later, House finally nodded, pensively. "Yeah…"

A small smile suddenly tugged at his lips. "Guess I'm looking forward to that brand-new door, then…"

* * *

**Thank you for reading! :)**


	5. Trauma

**A/N: ****Next part… Sorry for the long wait!! **

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**Trauma**

"Will you stop with the neuro crap already… I'm fine!" Angrily slapping Foreman's hand away, House effectively prevented him from checking his pupil response for the umpteenth time.

"You're not fine, House. You were screaming!" But he gave up on using the penlight for now. "And you were calling a _dead woman's name_, meaning she was _part_ of whatever you saw…" He once again turned towards House's latest MRI, which they had taken a day prior to his release from the hospital, almost four months ago.

"Plus you were non-responsive. You had no idea where you were, or that what you were experiencing wasn't actually real. – If it's not neurological, that was a textbook flashback. You're definitely not _fine_, House… – You need to be checked out for PTSD."

House's posture visibly stiffened at that, and he immediately pushed himself off the examination table. "I don't _need_ to do anything. And I'm not going to. I'm fine! – No trauma, no PTSD."

Foreman immediately raised an eyebrow at that. "No trauma?! You call a bus accident with 30 people injured or maimed and your best friend's girlfriend dying under your hands 'no trauma'?! – You suffered severe injuries yourself House, _and_ suffered serious complications from a deep-brain stimulation. You lost your only friend. – And you seriously wanna call all that 'no trauma'?!"

Silence.

Foreman regarded the other man pensively for a moment. "How have you been sleeping?" Tone once again clinical.

House rolled his eyes in response, voice dripping of sarcasm. "Like a baby in a cushy, cozy crib. – As usual…"

Foreman replied with an eye-roll of his own. "You been having any nightmares?" He finally insisted.

House threw him an impatient glance at that. "I don't have PTSD, Foreman. You can stop trying to get any symptoms out of me…"

With that, he took a step forward and tried to grab his cane, but Foreman quickly pulled it out of his reach. His eyes narrowed slightly when he regarded the item in his hand more closely.

"You never got your old cane back," he finally stated in full Sherlock Holmes mode. "Could indicate you're avoiding exposure to things related to the trauma…"

House once again rolled his eyes. "Could also mean I didn't bother _driving_ 10 miles to rummage around in a pile of police garbage, just to look for a 10$ piece of shit that's most probably broken anyway." He sounded aggressively defensive even to his own ears.

Unsurprisingly, Foreman was still eyeing him critically, even though his gaze had softened slightly for some reason. He sounded almost pacifying when he finally stated much more softly: "A psychological reaction to a traumatic event is nothing to be ashamed of. And PTSD is a very treatable – "

"I don't have PTSD!!" House finally seemed to be having enough. "I wasn't in _Iraq_ for God's sake… It was just a bus accident. – In which I wasn't even _injured_!"

Foreman gave him an incredulous look. "You call a skull fracture 'no injury'? – And you don't even _need _to be physically injured to develop PTSD. The _threat_ of physical harm is enough; or the experience of people around you getting injured. Hell, even family members of victims can develop PTSD! – You know that House. So why are you so bent on not having PTSD?"

That was when Cuddy suddenly entered the exam room. She seemed slightly breathless, her face a mask of concern. "What happened."

Nervously taking in the sight of her favorite diagnostician, who seemed at least conscious and without any outward signs of injury, she finally allowed herself to relax a little.

Foreman returned the cane to its owner, before turning towards her.

"I think he may be suffering from post-traumatic stress disorder. – I'm recommending a psych consult."

. . . . .

When Wilson entered Cuddy's office later that same day, she found his expression – for once – unreadable. Ignoring her questioning gaze, he slowly crossed the room and sat down in the chair opposite her desk.

"I heard House had some sort of… episode today," he finally stated very calmly, gaze resting on her, apparently waiting for some sort of confirmation.

Hesitating briefly, Cuddy finally just shook her head slightly, throwing him a critical glance. "So, why are you here? I think he's still in his office. Go and ask _him_."

For a very brief moment, she thought she saw a flash of anxiety in Wilson's eyes or at least something resembling intense discomfort, but then he just retorted in a dryly humorous voice not unlike his usual inflection. "You know how he is. If you want to get anything out of him at all, you need to bring food, booze or hookers."

She absolutely didn't buy his weak attempt at nonchalance, but decided to give up anyway for now, replying with a small sigh: "Foreman thinks he had some sort of," she gestured slightly with one hand, "flashback. – He suspects PTSD."

To her surprise, Wilson simply snorted at that. "That's just ridiculous… He doesn't have PTSD." He suddenly pushed himself to his feet again, taking a few steps towards the window. "He was either… _faking it_ for some reason, or it has to be neurological." Not a trace of doubt in his voice. And, to Cuddy's surprise, she couldn't even detect a hint of Wilson's most favorite sentiment towards House: concern.

She frowned slightly at his response. "What makes you think that?"

He abruptly turned around to face her again, both eyebrows raised. "Because he was _shot_, Cuddy. Without developing a _hint_ of PTSD. – He was assaulted _dozens_ of times. Hell, he was even maimed against his will, while suffering massive amounts of pain for _weeks_ at a time. – All without showing symptoms of PTSD at any point. Or any other sort of stress reaction or adjustment disorder for that matter, so… Why would he be suffering from it _now_?"

Cuddy just stared at him for a long moment, still trying to read his reaction. Then her gaze suddenly softened considerably, the look on her face now almost compassionate. "This isn't your fault, Wilson…"

He looked shocked at the statement. "Well, _of course_ it isn't my fault, because I didn't drive the bus! – And it's not PTSD!"

When she didn't reply anything immediately, but just kept looking at him with that sickeningly pitiful gaze, he added in a more rational tone: "Why would he suddenly react with PTSD, when he's been through so many things worse than a bus accident?"

Her gaze was still resting on him; when she finally replied, her tone was mild. "Do you really need me to answer that, Wilson?" She didn't even wait for his reply, instead explaining patiently: "Maybe because the emotional impact was more severe this time. – Maybe because his _best friend_ left him behind with a _damaged brain_, after he practically killed himself for three days to save said best friend's girlfriend!"

Wilson seemed stunned for a moment, but then threw her a challenging glance. "So, you're saying that it wasn't really the bus accident that traumatized him; it was _me_?!"

The brief bout of anger she had momentarily felt had already passed again, replaced by just a hint of resignation, but she kept her tone quietly insistent.

"I'm saying, you leaving didn't help his recovery. I'm saying, the only social support system he has ever allowed himself to completely rely on suddenly broke away when he really needed it. – I'm saying: _yes_; you did some damage…"

"My girlfriend died, Cuddy!" He protested indignantly.

She just nodded slowly. "Yes. She did…"

Her calm words finally seemed to get past Wilson's defenses, who now started to rub the back of his neck in a nervous gesture, exhaling audibly. Then he took a deep breath, seemingly forcing himself to fully face Cuddy again.

"I'm…" Shaking his head slightly, he suddenly sounded defeated. "It's not PTSD."

. . . . .

It was long dark outside, when Wilson came to stand in front of his friend's office. He watched the other man through the glass door for a moment, taking in the sight of him leaning over some book on his desk, apparently reading. He let his eyes slowly wander over his friend, carefully looking for signs of deterioration or distress. – He couldn't detect any.

Quietly pushing the door open, he waited until House looked up at him, one eyebrow raised in question.

Wilson calmly returned his gaze. "You doing okay?" He finally asked in a very soft tone of voice.

House just stared at him for a moment, looking honestly puzzled. "Where's that coming from." Then, realization suddenly dawning: "Or should I say: Just fine, _Foreman_…"

Wilson smiled softly at that. "You up for some dinner?" He held up his right hand slightly to indicate the bag of takeout he had brought.

After a very brief moment of hesitation, House finally just shrugged, replying with a small nod. "Sure."

They sat together in silence for a while, until House realized that he was currently the only one eating. Setting down the carton of Chop suey he had just been working on, he threw Wilson a slightly reluctant glance.

"So!" He waited until the younger man hesitantly met his eyes. "Why don't you say it already, so I can finally eat in peace…"

Wilson looked like a deer in the headlights for a moment, but then he just shook his head and averted his gaze. "I…" He seemed unsure how to say it. "You…"

Briefly glancing at the ceiling in obvious frustration, House interrupted impatiently: "He, she, it. – Where is this going, Wilson."

Wilson slowly looked up again at that, seemingly forcing himself to make eye-contact. His voice was frail when he finally replied: "I know you didn't kill Amber; and I'm…" He swallowed thickly, causing House to frown slightly.

He finally continued even more softly, once again averting his gaze. "The last thing I want is to see you unwell, but…" An uncomfortable half-shrug. "This is hitting a little close to home." With what seemed like an effort, he finally brought himself to meet House's intense gaze again. "I'm simply not ready to support you with this. – I just… can't think about this right now."

With that he simply pushed himself to his feet, throwing House a last, somewhat apologetic glance. Then he simply turned around and left the office, his every movement betraying his discomfort.

House stared after him for a long moment, face frozen in unconcealed surprise. – He finally exhaled slowly and picked up his office phone, slowly punching in a couple of numbers.

"Foreman; it's House. – About those sleeping pills…"

* * *

**Tbc… :)  
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	6. Painful

**A/N: ****This one takes place directly following the episode "Painless", in which a suicidal chronic pain patient confronts House about his deteriorating condition. In front of Chase... – Hope you enjoy! :) **

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**Painful**

"So…" Chase slowly entered House's office, still wearing scrubs. Somewhat uneasily leaning back against the edge of the desk, he glanced down at his former boss, who was currently stretched out on his recliner warily returning his gaze.

"How many more bad days lately?"

House just scoffed at the question, turning his head slightly to the side, apparently not at all interested in having this conversation.

Chase's gaze still rested on him, assessingly. "Have you tried switching meds? Or supplementing with anything?"

No response.

"Have you at least told anyone?" After a brief moment of silence, he added more softly: "Have you told Wilson?"

House abruptly turned his head at that, throwing Chase an angry – and slightly warning – glance. "This isn't any of your business." Then he nodded towards the door. "Get out."

Instead of following the rude order, Chase simply shook his head crossing his arms in front of his chest. "You're right; it's none of my business. – Unless," he hesitantly searched House's gaze, his tone more careful now, "...this is starting to get unmanageable for you."

There; it was out.

House simply rolled his eyes in response. "I'm not our patient! And I'm not suicidal…"

Chase slowly shook his head again, trying to remain calm. "I didn't say you were! But this case can't have left you unaffected. I just want to make sure it didn't – "

"Inspire me?!" House challenged.

"I was gonna say 'depress you'…" Chase patiently met his angry gaze.

"I'm not _depressed_."

"But you're in pain," Chase countered without hesitation.

House didn't dispute that one, instead just averting his gaze again, looking decisively uncomfortable.

"I'm just saying," Chase continued more carefully, "it doesn't need to get any more out of hand…"

At that, House abruptly looked up at him again, eyes glaring. "Oh, really?! That's so good to know, because I was actually starting to worry that an 8 on the pain-scale after half a pound of Vicodin _might just be a bad thing_!" Shocked by his own outburst, House abruptly looked away again, face flushed, with anger or embarrassment Chase didn't know…

Letting House's words hang in the air for a moment, he finally replied with a small nod. "Okay. So the meds obviously aren't working well right now… – Since when has it been getting worse?"

Just a shrug.

But Chase wasn't deterred that easily. "Before or after your injury…"

"What injury…" House frowned in obvious confusion.

Briefly wondering just how many different injuries the other man might have suffered lately, and deciding he didn't really want to know, Chase patiently clarified: "Before or after the crash."

Anger once again flared up in the other man's eyes. "This is _not_ psychosomatic."

Chase just shook his head again. "I didn't say it was! I'm just saying it could be _trauma_-related." He nodded slightly towards the leg. "If the nerves were – "

"It's not trauma-related." His tone didn't leave much room for argument.

Hesitating briefly, Chase finally replied with a slow nod. "Okay… But – one way or another – the increased pain might still be related to the events of the last couple of months. – Why don't you," he shook his head slightly, "see an orthopedist? Get the leg checked."

House threw him another angry glance. "Because this is not an orthopedic issue. – It's a _pain_ issue."

Chase just nodded again, fighting for patience. "Then see a _pain_ specialist."

House seemed about to reply something, but then he suddenly narrowed his eyes in suspicion. "_Why_ are you suddenly so interested in this?"

Chase attempted a casual half-shrug, but he didn't fully meet House's annoyingly intense gaze. "Must be Cam rubbing off on me…"

House regarded him for another long moment, seemingly considering this, before finally replying with a small shake of his head. "Nope! Don't believe you…" His tone was light, but he was still staring at the younger man, apparently waiting for a more elaborate explanation.

Considering his options for a moment, Chase finally expelled a long breath, resigning himself to the fact that – if he really wanted to get House to open up to him – the least he could offer was a little bit of honesty in return…

Shaking his head slightly, he steeled himself for the mockery ahead.

"Your leg is obviously getting worse." He flicked a brief glance at the limb in question, before raising his head slightly to once again meet House's critical gaze. "I know it has been before, but you've always put up a fight. Tried to do something to get better; or at least not any worse…" He took another deep breath before finishing bravely: "This is the first time it feels as if you might be losing that fight…"

When all that met his statement was stunned silence, he went on a little more insistently, trying to reign in his rising agitation: "I've known you for _5 years_ House, and I've never even heard you say the words 'I'm hurting'! – And now you suddenly call yourself a cripple complaining you can't get to the phone on time, massage your leg during differentials, and talk about bad days in front of your patient and half the OR staff! – I'm not just gonna ignore this…"

House snorted at that. "Well, you don't seem to be having much of a choice, seeing as I'm not gonna talk about this any more…"

Briefly glancing towards the ceiling in obvious frustration, Chase seemed to be searching for the right words for a moment. He finally went on in an unusually quiet tone of voice: "I know that the last couple of months must have been hard for you. – But you cannot just give up now. You need to let someone help…"

House eyed him silently for a long moment, a strangely blank look on his face. Then he suddenly just shrugged slightly. "I'm not giving up. – As I said: I'm not our patient! I'm not the one they found sucking at his tail pipe…"

Chase held his gaze unflinchingly. "Not yet."

House eyed him incredulously at that, tone an interesting mixture of pained and amused. "You seriously think I'm about to kill myself?!"

Chase abruptly lowered his head at that, automatically avoiding the other man's intense gaze. – When he finally looked up again, his expression was completely unguarded. "I _think_," he replied slowly, "that there's only so much anyone can take. And I don't want to look back on this day sometime, and ask myself why the hell I ignored the closest thing to a call for help you're probably capable of…"

He was vaguely aware of how pathetic he must be sounding to the other man, but decided to simply ignore it for now.

"You're fighting non-stop for each and every one of your patients; whether they like it or not. Even when they literally _beg_ you to please just let them die. Hell, even when their own _families_ have long since given up on them! – Why can't you _just this once_ let someone fight a little bit with _you_, _too_…?"

He could read the shock on the other man's face, until House suddenly turned his head towards the door in a vain attempt to hide his emotional reaction.

When it became clear that he wasn't about to reply anything, Chase calmly continued: "I mean, I get it. This is a difficult situation… You're obviously still not really talking to Wilson again, and you're _never_ talking to anybody _else_. – But you need to come up with _something_, some way to let someone support you; because like this," he vaguely gestured into House's general direction, "you are going to kill yourself. One way or another…"

As if on cue, House suddenly winced, one hand reflexively going to his obviously painful thigh. He started to squeeze firmly somewhere right above his knee, but if his pallor was any indication, the action only seemed to be making it worse. Swallowing what sounded like a low moan of pain, he finally used both hands to carefully pull the leg towards him until it was no longer fully extended, the heel of his sneaker now resting against the edge of the ottoman. Then he firmly started to rub the side of his leg, his expression – by now – more angry than pained.

Quickly scanning the room, his eyes finally came to rest on his jacket that was hanging over the back of his chair. Flicking a brief glance at the only other person in the room, he urgently nodded towards it. "Chase…"

Following the other man's gaze, Chase nodded slightly in understanding, ridiculously grateful for the distraction. – When he handed the jacket over, he already heard the tell-tale rattle of House's pill bottle inside one of the pockets.

When House flipped the lid open and swallowed what looked like a handful of pills dry, he nodded slightly towards the medication.

"Who writes your scripts for you at the moment…"

Silence.

House seemed a little more relaxed again and had closed his eyes for now, one hand still gently kneading his thigh.

"Wilson again?"

That got him a small movement vaguely resembling a nod. – Which was actually more than he'd hoped for…

Chase concentrated on sounding clinical when he finally spoke again. "Then you need to talk to him. At least tell him you need an adjustment of your medication. – That's nothing unusual in chronic pain management; you _know_ that, House…" His tone was almost imploring by now.

When he still got no response, he couldn't suppress a small sigh. "House…"

"No."

Chase frowned slightly at the vehemence of the statement.

"Why not?"

"Because," when House finally looked up at him again, his expression was suddenly completely unguarded, "a small _adjustment_ of my medication won't be enough."

"Okay…" Chase tried to process the unexpected information, voice rising slightly towards the end of the drawn-out word. "So, tell him you need a _big_ adjustment. Wilson's a _doctor_, House; he knows how these things are…"

House seemed to consider that for a moment, but then he just shook his head, picked up his cane and slowly started to push himself to his feet. – Chase couldn't help but notice how carefully he held himself, how gingerly he was still moving the leg…

"No." House had already half-turned towards his desk, clearly signaling the rapidly approaching end of the discussion.

"Why not? House, it's – "

He was abruptly interrupted by the sound of House forcefully striking the surface of the desk with the flat of his hand.

"_Because_," he suddenly replied much more loudly, "it would be too much!"

Usually, Chase probably would have just left the room at House's tone and the slight threat in the other man's posture. – But this was too important…

"For you, or for him?" he finally returned in a pointedly calm tone of voice.

House abruptly averted his gaze at that, letting his head hang slightly, one hand still resting on top of his desk, the other by now tightly gripping the handle of his cane.

Chase was still regarding him calmly. "Just because you think he has other things on his mind right now, doesn't mean you have to suffer through this alone…"

House snorted at that. "I don't give a rat's ass about whether or not he has other things on his mind…"

After a very brief moment of hesitation, Chase replied with a small nod, everything suddenly falling into place. "But you _do_ give a rat's ass about whether or not he'll _leave_ again." He didn't miss the small wince his words caused. "He _won't_ _leave_ again, just because you're unwell, House…" he desperately tried to reason with the usually so rational diagnostician.

"I'm not _unwell_!"

Chase scoffed at that. "No; right… You're the picture of health right now." He once again took in the other man's sunken features, his pale complexion, the deep lines of pain surrounding his eyes.

This time, House shook his head in what might have been opposition, or what might just have been denial. "He won't hear any of this." The words sounded final.

Chase just stared at him for a moment, clearly unhappy with his decision, but also freshly out of arguments. – He finally nodded his head reluctantly, before half-turning towards the conference room, trying to come to terms with the fact that this was – after all – House's own life. And that he had every right to make his own decisions; however bad they turned out to be…

His gaze suddenly fell on the white-board that had already helped to save so many lives. Had in fact helped save a life _today_. A life that – in the end – hadn't even wanted to be saved anymore…

Chase suddenly nodded again, this time with determination instead of his former display of resigned acceptance.

"Okay. – But Wilson's not the only doctor in this building…"

He heard House snort softly at that. "Are you volunteering?" Clearly a challenge.

Chase just shrugged in response, once again turning towards the other man, firmly meeting his tired gaze. "Got all the diplomas! And I also happen to have a prescription pad…"

House made another incredulous sound in response that resembled a pained half-laugh. "Believe me… You don't wanna get involved in this."

Chase countered without hesitation: "Believe me… I wouldn't wanna stay _out_ of it."

He thought he saw a flicker of surprise in House's eyes, but if he had, it was gone again as quickly as it had appeared. – But maybe, just _maybe_ he actually had a chance here…

"Look… Let me just draw some blood, and we'll talk about alternative treatment options…"

"Absolutely not."

Chase rolled his eyes at the other man's categorical decline.

"Then let me draw some blood, and tell me what you wanna try."

When House just threw him a very skeptical glance in response, he quickly continued: "I'll write for whatever you think is best for you… Risky or not. _Crazy_ or not. – As long as you're willing to try _something_, I'll write for whatever you tell me."

"I very much doubt that," was House's dry reply.

Chase kept his gaze fixed on the other man, then replied with a calm half-smile that he hoped reflected his determination. And confidence.

"Try me…"

* * *

**TBC…**

:)


	7. Scare

**A/N: ****So, that's it guys: the last chapter of this series... Thanks so much to everyone who's been sticking with this despite the long periods of waiting in between posts. This was actually the first time I started posting something before I had it (at least for the most part) written out, so there you go... **

**A huge THANK YOU also goes to the amazing Misanthropicobs over at LJ, who generously offered to beta-read this part. I added a couple of things after that, so all remaining mistakes are mine alone! – But now enjoy &**** have fun with the conclusion! :)**

**A/N #2: This ****one takes place following the episode "Locked in" (5.19), in which House takes on a patient with Locked-in Syndrome, while he himself is treated in New York after a motorcycle accident…**

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**Scare**

"I've been thinking."

House looked up from his desk to find Wilson standing in the door to his office, hands on his hips, a determined expression on his face.

Somewhat reluctantly removing his reading glasses, House grimaced slightly in anticipation. "Experience tells us that's almost _never_ a good thing…"

Simply ignoring the dry remark, Wilson slowly approached the other man's desk, never taking his eyes off his friend.

"We should get you an MRI," he finally announced in a tone that was probably meant to sound authoritative.

House didn't seem particularly impressed. "And we should get _you_ a chastity belt! – Both ideas rank about equally low on the scale of things we're actually _going_ to do though…"

Wilson rolled his eyes in response. "Stop deflecting, House; I'm serious."

A small shrug. "So am I!"

Determined not to let himself be distracted, Wilson eyed his friend seriously. "I've booked you in for 6 pm tonight."

"What?!" House's formerly mocking expression morphed into a confused frown. "Where's that suddenly coming from…"

"'Where's that suddenly coming from'…?" Wilson echoed incredulously. "Motorcycle accident…? Head trauma? – Any of that ring a bell?"

This time it was House who rolled his eyes. "Oh, don't be such a drama queen… I scraped my elbow! – So unless my neck has suddenly migrated to an area right above my _ulna_, there was no 'head trauma'…"

Wilson's eyebrows shot up at that, and he started to gesture somewhat hectically in his friend's general direction. "Your… _three billion_ _facial bruises_ beg to differ!"

Another eye-roll. "I'm fine, Wilson. – Where's this suddenly coming from?"

"It's not _coming_ from anywhere, House…" Wilson replied almost a little harshly, before taking a deep breath and continuing with forced patience: "It's the logical thing to do after head trauma from an MVA."

"Three days after the accident. With the patient showing _no_ residual symptoms," House retorted dryly.

Wilson countered without hesitation: "Brenda saw you take some Aspirin this morning." He sounded almost a little accusing.

House merely shrugged in response. "So what? I had a mild headache. – Not surprising; and certainly no indication for an MRI…"

Wilson slowly shook his head at that. "You're on 80 mg hydrocodone, not to mention a few grams of acetaminophen per day! – For you, a mild headache could actually mean a _massive_ headache, which _would_ be an indication for an MRI…"

"I have no other symptoms!" House finally insisted.

"You came in by cab this morning, and you didn't steal any of my breakfast." Wilson gave him a challenging look. "Explain that without use of the concepts 'dizziness' and 'nausea'!"

Glancing at the ceiling in obvious frustration, House slowly but surely seemed to be losing his patience. "You're not nearly as good at the Sherlock Holmes thing as you _think_ you are, Wilson…" Then more loudly: "How about the concepts '_broken motorcycle_' and '_breakfast at home_'?!"

Wilson suddenly exhaled audibly, tensely starting to rub the back of his neck. "I don't know why you're so stubborn about this, House. An MRI can hardly hurt you…"

"That's not the point! – Since when do we run around the hospital prescribing pointless procedures for people who are _not even patients_!"

"It's not a pointless procedure." Wilson searched his friend's gaze, his eyebrows by now drawn together in a typical display of concern. "Did they even do any imaging in New York?"

"_No_, because it would have been a pointless procedure even _then_!" To Wilson's continuing critical stare, he went on explaining with another irritated eye-roll: "I was fully conscious when I arrived at the clinic, I passed the neuro-check, and they kept me overnight for observation. – Which you might actually recognize as _standard procedure_!"

"Aha!" Wilson suddenly pointed an accusing finger at him. "So you were _not_ fully conscious _before_ you arrived at the clinic!"

Shaking his head in exasperation, House suddenly grabbed his cane and started to push himself to his feet. "That's enough, Wilson; this conversation is over. You're not being rational… – I have no idea what you're so desperately trying to overcompensate for, but feel free to finish this discussion by taking on both parts of the conversation."

With that he was already on his way to the door.

He couldn't have been any more surprised, when he suddenly felt a strong hand on his shoulder, spinning him back around almost forcefully, then keeping an iron grip around his left forearm. – Wilson was standing just inches away from him, just about yelling into his face: "You had a _skull fracture_ not even a year ago! An MRI after renewed head trauma is _not_ a _pointless procedure_!"

From his peripheral vision House could see all three members of his team slowly move towards the door separating the conference room from his office. When Kutner was about to enter the room, worriedly taking in Wilson's threatening stance over his boss, House answered his questioning gaze with a small shake of his head.

Then he turned his attention towards his newly out of control best friend again trying – for once – to sound placatory. "Okay, you're right. Not a pointless procedure. – Let go of my arm now Wilson, you're hurting me…"

That definitely did the trick. As if burned, Wilson immediately released his arm, shock at his own outburst now written all over his face.

As if on cue, House saw the three younger doctors simultaneously relax and back off a few steps from the door again. – The whole scene would have been comical, if he hadn't been so clueless as to what was actually going on…

"Oh, God; I'm sorry, House…" Wilson's eyes almost anxiously wandered over his friend's body, coming to rest on his crippled leg. "Did I – "

"It's fine, Wilson. Don't worry about it…"

Nodding a couple of times at the other man's reassurance, Wilson pushed his hands into his trouser pockets in a gesture that couldn't have screamed 'discomfort' any more loudly. – When he finally spoke again he kept his eyes fixed on the floor, his voice now strangely toneless.

"You had a skull fracture last year. One I don't think has been adequately followed-up on. – And after the… You had a _brain bleed_ that could have left you permanently…" He didn't finish the sentence, instead raising a slightly trembling hand to the back of his neck. "We don't even know how well the old fracture has been healing, do we?" He threw House a somewhat questioning glance at that, but didn't wait for a reply.

"And now there's been some new trauma… – You didn't even get _one night_ of decent rest after that! Just took on that case, and…" He took in a slightly unsteady breath of air. "You should have been in the hospital _yourself_, House, instead of just pushing everything away again to deal with some random patient… You can't just risk your own health like that just to…" He once again interrupted himself, his breathing by now bordering on erratic.

"Calm down, Wilson. You're hyperventilating."

"Stop deflecting! This is not about… We need to deal with this. I – " He suddenly seemed to be gasping for breath, sweat breaking out on his forehead.

"Wilson; sit down."

The message seemed lost on the younger man, who impatiently brushed House's hand away. "I can't believe I – " He frantically started to loosen his tie. "It's hot in here, right? I can't…"

Without any further warning he suddenly threw up all over himself and House, vaguely registering that his friend would be really pissed, because this was probably the second ruined shirt in as many days.

"I need some help in here!" Was the last thing he heard before everything went mercifully dark.

* * *

Wilson woke up to the sound of rhythmic thumping. His first association was a cripple with a cane; his second association was the basketball court in the backyard of his childhood home.

It turned out to be somewhat of a mixture between the two.

Turning his head slightly to the side, he saw House with his ball, engrossed in a list of symptoms on the white board, which he had – for a change – set up in his own office.

House had apparently seen him move, because he suddenly turned his head to look at him; the thumping of the ball ceased.

"I'm… I wasn't feeling well. – I didn't have a heart attack, did I?" As soon as he'd said the words, Wilson realized how ridiculous they were, seeing as he probably wouldn't be lying on House's recliner if he'd really had a heart attack sometime within the last hour or so…

But instead of the expected mockery in return, House just regarded him calmly. "No; your heart's fine. – You started hyperventilating, then you passed out."

"A panic attack." Not a question.

House still answered, his tone unusually mild. "Yes."

Wilson frowned slightly at the information, wondering if it was normal for him to still be feeling this drowsy. After a brief moment of contemplation, he decided to voice his concern. "I'm still feeling – "

"That would be the Ativan," House quickly interrupted, his expression unusually solemn. "You briefly came to earlier, but you were still pretty upset then. So we decided to help you relax a while. – You should be fine in a couple of hours…"

Nodding slightly, Wilson tiredly rubbed his face, still trying to get his bearings. – That was when he suddenly remembered the vomiting…

"I made a mess, didn't I… I'm sorry, House, I – "

"It's fine, Wilson. Everything's fine. – Why don't you just rest some more and sleep it off…"

He didn't want to sleep. He wanted to clear this whole mess up!

But the residual sedation and his own exhaustion almost instantly decided against him…

* * *

The next time he woke up, it was already dark outside.

A jacket was loosely draped over him. _House's_ jacket, now that he regarded it a little more closely… The characteristic scent of his friend suddenly seemed to engulf him, and he felt himself automatically relax into the familiar smell that he suddenly found oddly comforting.

"You seemed cold." House's gruff voice explained somewhat unnecessarily from somewhere out of his sight. "How are you feeling?" His friend slowly step-thumped towards him, before carefully lowering himself onto one of the visitor's chairs.

Wilson slowly started to sit up a little. "Better. Fine…" It was true. He was still feeling a little tired, but all in all he felt pretty good; considering.

"House, I'm so sorry. I don't know what's gotten – "

"Will you stop with the 'sorry' crap already! I told you: It's _fine_."

Wilson couldn't help but smirk slightly at that. "I'll stop apologizing, if you promise not to say 'fine' one more time. It's starting to creep me out…"

That got him a hint of a smile and a small nod in return.

A minute later, he noticed House regarding him somewhat critically for a moment. Apparently satisfied with what he saw, the older man then pushed himself to his feet again and took a few heavy steps towards the light-board opposite his desk. To Wilson's somewhat questioning glance, he switched it on and nodded towards the imaging results of an as of yet unknown patient.

"This is the old fracture site." House indicated a region around the temporal bone of the displayed head, and that was when Wilson finally got it. He instantly started to feel slightly sick to the stomach, but forced himself to sit up fully.

"As you can see, it has not been re-injured; all things considered it's actually been healing pretty well." Without waiting for Wilson's comment on the matter, he moved slightly to the right to indicate a second scan, clearly depicting his brain.

"Also, there's no significant edema or swelling, no bleeding, no indication of a subdural hematoma; no _nothing_ anywhere around the brain." He now half-turned towards Wilson again, meeting his still slightly shocked gaze with what seemed like a conscious effort. "I'm officially _fine_. --- Oops; sorry about that…"

Wilson slowly shook his head, still trying to catch up with the situation. "Who – "

"Foreman."

Carefully pushing himself to his feet, Wilson now approached the light-board as well in order to examine the scans more closely himself.

Swallowing hard, he finally raised a slightly trembling hand to trace the by now barely discernable fracture line.

"You're not freaking out on me again, are you?" House regarded the slight tremor in his hand with a small frown. "Because this was definitely my last set of spare clothes…"

Simply ignoring the gruff remark, Wilson's eyes were still resting on the light-board.

"You know what I did after the trip-wire thing?" When House didn't immediately reply, he clarified somewhat impatiently: "After all those… pranks Cuddy played on you?" Wilson turned his head slightly to look at House, a somewhat pained expression on his face. "I _confronted_ her." He shook his head as if incredulous at his own actions. "Accused her of _hurting_ you; physically hurting you…" With a short laugh, that might just as well have been a sob, he once again turned towards the light-board. "I can't believe she didn't just laugh in my face…" The raw bitterness in his tone made House reflexively wince.

"For _years_, I prided myself with being your best friend, making painfully sure everyone realized just how much I cared about you; how much I _loved_ you…" He almost spat the word out, as if it were the concept alone that had betrayed his friend.

"But ever since the… accident – " Swallowing hard a couple of times, Wilson suddenly averted his gaze. "I just can't believe I've hurt you like that! – If this is how I show my love for people, it's really not surprising I'm being divorced all the time…"

House's gruff voice finally interrupted him, in a trademark attempt to somehow dismiss the matter. "Oh, would you stop with the whining already… _Everybody_ hurts the people they love." Then, more quietly: "We can't really hurt anybody else now, can we…"

Wilson regarded him for a moment, seemingly considering this, but then he just smiled sadly and shook his head.

"You know what's most despicable about what I've done?" He seemed to force himself to hold eye-contact, his voice finally breaking slightly. "You already barely love yourself, the last thing you need is a 'best friend' who confirms for you just how replaceable you are…"

House suddenly closed his eyes, as if trying to block out the painful words. "Stop it _now_, Wilson. This isn't helping… – If I'd known it would have this effect on you, I'd have let you ride it out without the Ativan…"

Wilson simply continued as if he hadn't even heard his friend. "And the worst thing is: I never even realized what I was doing! – Maybe I just didn't really wanna think about it… I mean, everybody's been telling me practically non-stop what an ass I'd been. I was still _being_ actually… But I just – " He shrugged slightly, but the movement seemed forced. "I thought that you hadn't lost anyone, so you shouldn't – " He once again interrupted himself, grimacing slightly at the weak explanation, then continued with an almost tortured expression. "But then I heard about your accident in New York, and nobody seemed to know how bad it was, and I just…" He slowly searched his friend's gaze, his eyes suddenly glistening suspiciously. "I can't lose you, House."

If the older man was affected by Wilson's emotional anguish, he certainly hid it well. – When he finally replied, it was in his usual gruff inflection. "Well, lucky for you, it seems you won't have to. At least not in the foreseeable future." He firmly nodded towards the imaging results again. "You wanted to know I'm okay: Here's your evidence! I'm okay… Everything's been healing just fine."

But Wilson wasn't deterred that easily. Quickly averting his gaze, he shook his head slightly. "No… Actually, everything hasn't. The insomnia, the flashbacks; the increased pain… – When I said I'd credit Cuddy with the psychiatrist thing, I was wrong, wasn't I. It wasn't about Cuddy at all…"

Silence.

A minute or more passed, before House finally replied, his tone suspiciously devoid of emotion.

"No. It wasn't." He sounded entirely too calm for the admission.

Wilson quickly glanced towards the ceiling at that; he actually seemed to be fighting back tears. But then he just nodded slightly, before once again searching his friend's gaze.

"Are you really not planning on going back?"

A small shrug. "Probably not."

When Wilson just wordlessly kept looking at him, finally nodding unhappily, House barely managed to suppress another eye-roll. "Oh, don't give me that look, Wilson… You may believe otherwise, but there's actually nothing wrong with me that a psychiatrist would need to cure. – It's just been a…" He suddenly interrupted himself, the admission of weakness foreign on his tongue. "…very long year…" Quickly moving his head slightly, he tried to avoid the look he knew he would find on the other man's face.

Wilson finally spoke again in a very soft tone of voice.

"Is there any way we can be okay again?"

The question surprised House, causing him to look up sharply. He wasn't prepared for the strange mixture of sadness, fear, remorse and hope he saw in his friend's expression.

Swallowing hard a couple of times, his eyes went back to the scans, before he started to lightly rub his leg in an almost reflexive gesture. Then he just shook his head slightly, unable to meet the younger man's searching gaze.

"That's a stupid question, Wilson. Of course there is."

"Then… what would it take?"

The almost childlike question caused House to meet Wilson's gaze again, this time unable to hide the pain in his eyes. He once again swallowed hard, fighting to keep his tone even.

"You forgiving yourself; me forgiving myself; we both forgiving each other…" He seemed visibly uncomfortable even as he said it.

The words brought another strangled sound from Wilson's throat that House couldn't quite place. "I have nothing to forgive you, House…"

A somewhat sad half-smile slowly formed on the other man's face. "Well, that'd be one down then; three to go…"

Flinching slightly at the implication, despite the softness of House's tone, Wilson forced himself to nod, his whole posture once again radiating uneasiness.

He could feel House's gaze resting on him, but couldn't find the courage to return it. It was only when he heard his friend take a heavy step towards his desk, that he managed to look at him again.

House had in the meantime sat down in his usual chair and was absently twisting the cane between his hands.

"I… don't know what to do, House. How to start…"

House simply shook his head. "Doesn't matter. – You just did."

Wilson looked up sharply at that, surprise at seemingly being giving a relatively easy way out apparent on his face. He suddenly felt a profound wave of pure gratitude.

"If I could do everything differently all over again – "

"…you wouldn't." House finished the sentence for him, his tone mild.

Wilson looked ready to contradict, but then suddenly just stopped himself. – He finally gave one very small, almost resigned nod.

"Then how can this ever be okay for you…"

House briefly looked up at him at that, before quickly averting his gaze again. His voice held no accusation, when he finally replied.

"Because… you didn't mean it." His tone was surprisingly light, even though the tense half-smile that accompanied the statement really looked a lot more pained than amused. "You just can't lose people, you never could… So when Amber was dying, you panicked. You desperately wanted to save her, and you saw only one way out." He shrugged slightly. "Asking me to do the deep-brain stimulation was the logical thing to do." Then he once again turned towards the scans of his head and brain, his tone by now purely analytical. "And after that… You just couldn't stand it. The memory of her, the knowledge of what you'd… asked of me." Another shrug. "So you left! You were just trying to protect yourself, there's nothing wrong with that. – You didn't mean to hurt anyone …"

Wilson gave him an incredulous look at that. "So, because hurting you wasn't my primary goal, that makes what I did okay? Just like that?"

Another small shrug. "Didn't say it was okay. But it makes being angry about it pointless."

Wilson just looked at him for a moment, before once again averting his gaze and glancing at the ceiling, desperately trying to get a grip on the panic that was once again threatening to take hold. – He finally nodded unhappily a couple of times, still trying to come to terms with his friend's quiet rationalization of everything he'd done. His uncharacteristic lack of anger was just one more sign that proved just how badly he had hurt the other man.

Quickly blinking back the tears that finally threatened to fall, he decided he at least needed to get one honest truth across.

"You're right, I probably wouldn't act any differently if I could do it all again. But," he once again forced himself to meet House's gaze, needing him to see he meant this. "I would also regret it all over again. – I've never been more ashamed of anything in my life than of my behavior these last couple of months. I am really, _truly_ sorry, House…"

For a long moment, the older man simply stared at him, seemingly trying to process the words.

Then he suddenly just gave one clipped nod in response, before pushing himself to his feet with a slightly pained grunt.

"So! Now that that's out of the way, what do you say we grab a bite to eat. All this emo-talk always makes me so hungry, I'm practically starving!"

"House…" Wilson was about to protest, not yet ready to get back to their usual banter, only to be immediately interrupted again.

"Wilson." House's tone wasn't exactly sharp, but definitely decisive. "You haven't eaten in hours and you've had a hell of a day. – We're going out to get some dinner. If you absolutely can't help yourself, we can maybe talk some more then…" Switching off the light-board, he quickly made his way towards the door.

After a very brief moment of hesitation, Wilson hurried after him, picking up the discarded jacket on the way.

"House!"

When the older man reluctantly stopped walking and turned around again, Wilson held the jacket out for him but didn't let go, thereby forcing House to face him.

He knew that if he didn't say this now, he probably wouldn't say it at all, and even though his friend had clearly signaled that he'd had enough of all this for now, he simply needed him to hear it, just this once.

"I know that I've done absolutely nothing to show it these last couple of months…" He saw House tense slightly at the preface, but continued anyway, bracing himself for a potentially bad reaction. "But I do love you; you know that, right?"

House looked startled for just a split second, before simply rolling his eyes again. – When he noticed that Wilson kept looking at him, he seemed to realize that some sort of verbal response was actually required if they wanted to make it out of here any time soon…

Reluctantly returning the younger man's somewhat anxious gaze, he gave another clipped nod.

"You practically having a coronary over some scratched skin on my arm might have just tipped me off, yeah…" Even though his tone was once again gruff, the expression on his face had softened slightly.

Without waiting for a reply, he then quickly turned around and resumed his way towards the elevators.

"Doesn't make you any less of an ass though…" He finally added in his usual grumble.

Quickly falling into step at his friend's side, Wilson couldn't suppress a slight smirk, feeling almost dizzy with the weight that suddenly seemed to be lifting off his shoulders. "Hey! What happened to 'I was only trying to protect myself, and there was nothing wrong with that'…?!"

House turned his head slightly to glance at the younger man. His lips curled slightly in the beginnings of a smile.

"Everybody lies."

* * *

**The end (Yay!)  
**

:)


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